


The Day. The Week. The Year.

by HYPERFocused



Series: Motherless [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dead People, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Poetry, time-stamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:31:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2225751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HYPERFocused/pseuds/HYPERFocused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Time-stamp poem for my late mother, 12/09/1999. Written in 2000.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day. The Week. The Year.

**The Day. The Week. The Year.**

_The Day_ :

It was the sound of far off geese  
on nearly the last day  
that I will always  
associate with you.

It took me awhile to realize  
the windows must be soundproof  
or we'd hear  
the constant rage of sirens.

It was you -- fighting yourself for breath  
both wanting to go gentle  
and needing another night  
as the spotlight of our lives.

You were always "on"  
your smile lit up the darkness  
your pain dimmed the sun.

I don't like to think of those last hours  
the way your lungs sounded  
as they filled with fluid.

We were told it's normal  
and you couldn't feel it, anyway.  
Thanks to the mercy of morphine.

You lost the fight  
at 2:47. Just about the end  
of General Hospital.

It was late afternoon  
when I said goodbye  
I guess the sun was still shining.

 _The week_ :

I came home without a mother  
I woke up with the flu,  
Hardly a fair trade,  
if you ask me.

I had to find dark clothes  
and appropriate shoes.  
I searched the Internet  
for a dress that would fit  
and wore what I found  
in your closet.

I stood, shaking and feverish  
as the minyan prayed the Kaddish  
in your living room.

It felt right somehow  
to be coughing and crying  
as if God had taken my breath, as well

You went into the fire and came out  
as ashes, in two metal boxes.  
Part of me wanted to touch what you had become.

It was ashes and fire  
that brought you to this place  
One puff at a time.

 _The year_ :

It was almost winter  
Now it's nearly spring  
and you're still gone.

"Can you believe  
our mother is still dead?"  
My sister e-mailed me.

I wake up every day  
and put on your good gold watch  
and feel like an impostor in your clothes.

I want to tell you stupid things  
How much that Mary and Rhoda movie sucked  
how I took a few of your stale Tootsie Rolls  
and carry them in your Stone Mountain purse.

I want you to be proud of the 40 pounds I've lost  
the poem I've had published. The little ways  
my life is coming together,and how I've coped  
as everything important fell apart.

(for my mother, Lois, 6-24-31 to 12-09-99)


End file.
